


Stoke

by Lucifer_Rosemaunt



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, PWP, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 05:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3163508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucifer_Rosemaunt/pseuds/Lucifer_Rosemaunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which we all have weaknesses and desires and moments where we're willing to compromise just to get what we want. This is the first time they give into said wants together. ErikRaoul slash. Smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stoke

o.o.o.o

It is only after. After the bliss that blanks out every single thought that has been crowding his mind after so many days and weeks of stress and after the deepest sleep he has had since becoming the patron of the opera house does the guilt have the opportunity to take hold. Even days later, Raoul lays in bed and has to resist the urge to pull the blankets over his head to hide his shame from eyes that see too much.

Shame is a good word for it. He had been shameless. It is not as though he can claim ignorance to the presence of those gold eyes watching him from his bedroom window most nights and ever since the Incident, _every_ night. It is to be expected since he had not bothered to hide what he had been doing. In fact, the worst of it is the undeniable fact that being watched had been the driving force of his wayward thoughts and the tightness of his own grip as he sought release.

Now, he must suffer through the weight of that gaze, a nearly physical pressure that sits low in his belly and has him squirming beneath sheets that are entirely too stifling. However, if he were to remove the meager cover, he would reveal the fact that he has gone to bed every night with his neglected erection a heavy brand against his thigh.

_‘I mustn't’_ repeats in his head, a chant to shore up his already weak will as he forces his hands to stay above the sheets. It is not unlike a punishment, for he is certain he needs to be punished for how little it takes to imagine the masked man's hands upon his skin and lips upon his own. He deserves to be punished for how little it takes to want the ghost now, as though a dam of such scandalous thoughts has been broken, an act that he is both ill-equipped and unwilling to fix. 

He mustn't. He shouldn't. And, even after four long nights, he somehow manages to not.

So, it is something of a surprise that he wakes in the middle of the night to a cool breeze upon his legs. The breeze does nothing but stoke the burn of his desire that has somehow not abated even in his slumber. His nightshirt has ridden up his thighs. The hem lays at the base of his erection so that every movement he makes creates a feather light caress that maddeningly brushes against already too-sensitive skin. His arms ache where they are caught above his head and there is a stiffness to his fingers when he tries to bend them. He struggles against the binds that hold him. The effort does nothing more than drive the blankets further off the bottom of the bed and tease himself as his nightshirt shifts yet again, sliding up his reddened shaft to rest on the crown of his cock. He cants his hips back, trying to move away from the sudden rush of pleasure. Letting out a shaky breath, he tries to convince himself to be strong and not give into such base instinct.

It is a losing battle. He knows he would have given in already had it not been the fact that his hands are trapped. His mind is barely beginning to realize that it is no mere accident but rather a purposeful act.

A motion at the foot of the bed distracts him from further attempts at freeing himself.  The shadow moves intently towards him. There is little doubt in his mind who this spectre is and even though Raoul is uncertain if he is dreaming or not, he finds he does not care. He doubts his actions would be changed. More importantly, the ghost seems to be in some sort of trance, gaze fixed on Raoul's body, eyes possessively starting from his feet and moving up his body almost like a caress. The masked man avoids looking his face however.

Raoul twists his hands in order to grab what is undoubtedly the rope he has seen the ghost have with him on several occasions. He levers himself up, hitching his hips the slightest bit in order to let his legs fall open. The ghost's gaze and footsteps stop. Raoul arches his back to reduce the ache on his shoulders but the movement causes his nightshirt to slide up and over the tip of his erection and he cannot help the wanton moan that is loosed.

He tries to hold his breath, eyes darting to see if he has broken the ghost from his trance, but the other man is staring at the rather unflagging interest he has just inadvertently bared to a man he had once called a rival. He wonders if it is obvious he is aroused not _despite_ Erik, but _because of_ him. Perhaps if he knew, Raoul worries that the ghost would simply leave or outright mock him. A distant part of himself, a part before tonight and before the Incident tries to feel appalled at his own behavior, but simple desire has burned away any semblance of rational thought, leaving him with nothing but want. 

The stillness of the other man is a stark contrast against his own heavy breathing and heaving chest, with his gaze flitting between the ghost’s expression and his body. The moment lasts long enough that Raoul is certain he has been mistaken and is actually dreaming, haunted by visions of his own desire, so it is startling when Erik moves, fingers pressed against the bed sheets by his thigh hard enough that Raoul is wholly aware of the motion even though he neither sees nor feels those long, elegant fingers, even though he can easily imagine them. He watches instead as the older man’s eyes narrow. A focus he has only ever seen directed towards Christine overcomes him and fixes once more not on Raoul’s face but on the feast of skin laid before him and he becomes somehow even more predatory as he moves.

Raoul’s fevered thoughts stutter when imagination becomes reality and cold fingers brush against his skin. Fingertips trail up his thigh to his hip, a ghost of a touch that makes him warmer, that makes his blood seem to boil within his veins. It takes everything in him not to move and make that touch something more, still so very worried that any sudden sound or movement might drive the other man away.

It does not take long, however, before he breaks. Raoul is simply not strong enough to withstand the onslaught of feather light caresses that trail up and down his thigh as talented fingers trace contours and bones, teasing the skin hidden just beneath his nightshirt before traveling down to his knees, exploring the dips and tendons of the joint. The touch is light enough that it should tickle; instead, he shivers from an emotion significantly less innocent as he tries not to moan aloud. He fails, of course; the sounds are ripped so easily from him.

One such moan is loud enough that the ghost lifts his hand. Raoul immediately fears Erik will leave. Instead, the other man stares bemusedly at his own appendage, flexes it, and his features twist in an emotion Raoul has never seen before on his mien. He does not even think the ghost is being purposefully cruel. The man’s gaze is still hungry, his attention focused on every bit of skin available to him and although it makes little sense, it seems that for all intents and purposes, Raoul need not be there. It could be any body, and that thought is one of the few that manages to pierce the relentless thrum of want.

Raoul bites his tongue at the thought that it need not be _him_ for Erik to be so uncharacteristically bold with such contact. Squeezing his eyes shut, he is not sure which the worse outcome would be, if the ghost were to leave or if he were to remain. Still, no matter what he tries to think of, he cannot will away his erection.

He is still torn when a dip in the bed banishes all thought. The expensive cloth of Erik's trousers brush against his thighs, and Raoul opens his eyes to find the ghost settling himself between his legs as though he has every right to be there. He cannot help shifting his hips, erection seeking some friction when Erik's hands settle in the vee of his legs. His touch is no longer tentative but has a pressure that is reassuring and near bruising, which only stokes the fire of his desire to a frenzy once more.

Those hands pin his hips down and Raoul whines low in his throat, the sound spurring the ghost to drag his hands upwards, thumbs brushing the base of his cock before proceeding to push his nightshirt up past his chest. He is grateful when he is able to take a mouthful of the cloth, using it to stifle his moans more effectively than turning his head against his shoulder has been.

At first, the ghost simply touches him. He touches every part of his skin, more exploratory than purposeful, once more just tracing his ribs and abdomen. At least it is a real caress, one that Raoul shamelessly relishes. It is not meant to purposefully arouse, although it is pleasurable and Raoul finds himself relaxing into the touch. Then, Erik's thumb grazes one of his nipples and surprising a choked moan from him, one that makes Erik repeat the motion until Raoul is squirming beneath the attention, begging him with a stream of  _please_ s that come out as nothing more than groans as the words are muffled against his nightshirt. He is not sure what he is asking for - mercy or more - but he is certain he needs it, needs it because his chest feels like a raw nerve, all pleasure and pain and his cock that Erik is so adamantly ignoring is leaking pre-cum as it twitches. His inner thighs clench around the masked man, the material rough against his skin, and he is very likely going mad. 

The ghost is so easily tearing him apart, lulling him into relaxation before reducing him to incoherence, all the while remaining impeccably dressed and seemingly unaffected.

Raoul is mad enough to no longer care that speaking may drive the ghost away. It may be the kindest option at this point because surely the other man is simply teasing him, taunting him, and playing with his emotions since he had so foolishly presented his weakness as a gift. Spitting out the material of his nightshirt from his mouth as Erik pinches his already sore nipples, he nearly sobs, "Does your hatred know no bounds?" 

The ghost stops his ministrations and Raoul is furious with himself when he distantly bemoans the lack of stimulation. 

"Leave me be," he says instead, turning his head; he is too much of a coward to look the man in the face. He squeezes his eyes shut instead and shivers from a chill and he belatedly realizes he has been sweating, body so affected by the attentions given it. "Leave me to my shame. You've won, haven't you? You've brought me low and found my shame and I will..." He does not quite know what he is saying, only knows that he needs to say anything that will make the ghost stop this torture. "I do not know. I can make no promises. I have nothing to give."

"That," Erik says slowly, "is not true." His voice sounds different, all hushed and without the anger Raoul normally hears in it. It is the strangeness of his tone that convinces him to look at the man’s face and for the first time since he had woken, they meet eyes.

Raoul swallows convulsively, throat suddenly dry. "Wh-what?"

Erik's hand is back on his chest, the caress not as focused on his nipples, not when Erik's eyes never leaves his own and Raoul knows the other man can easily feel his heart pounding rabbit-quick beneath his hand. His touch is purposeful though, lowering past his belly button, following the trail of hair leading down to what Raoul has so desperately wanted attention bestowed upon all night. 

A warm palm, a bit rough and careless, is the first contact Raoul has against the shaft of his erection and he whines, twisting and finally breaking their eye contact. He ineffectually pulls his hands against the binds and looks down to see Erik's hand trapping his erection against his belly, creamy fluid dripping from his slit. When that palm remains as nothing but a firm pressure, he lets out a frustrated noise before jerking his hips up in an unsteady rhythm, desperately needing more. He strains and gasps, sweat dripping from his forehead, and the ghost does nothing but watch him. It is not quite what he wants, but he is so very close to coming, _needs_ to come that he plants his feet to better thrust his hips.

He knows he must look a sight, especially when he jerks his wrists from its bindings in frustration, the relief he seeks remaining just beyond his reach. 

"Please," he asks again, certain this is its own torture. His lungs hurt and his legs shake with fatigue. He simply cannot reach that peak without some assistance; his own motions are not hard enough. He glances at Erik, expecting to see a smug expression, but his breath hitches when he sees the ghost's face flushed and his lips open, eyes fixed on his hand on Raoul's erection with something akin to wonder. 

He has little time to think on it, well past the point of caring about anything beyond his own release. "Please grab it. Just- just," he tries to keep his eyes down, but his gaze is inevitably drawn back up to look Erik in the eyes once more. "Just wrap your fingers around..." and he cannot finish his sentence, not when Erik does as he asks before he can do so.

Clenching his teeth, he shuts his eyes briefly in an attempt to compose himself because as much as he has wanted to come, he is even more determined to make this last longer than mere seconds now that the ghost is cooperating with him. Without prompting, Erik slides his hand up and down, the motion made easier with pre-cum and when Raoul opens his eyes again, Erik's gaze is waiting for him. The masked man's other hand rests on his hip, his thumb stroking the juncture of his thigh.

Biting his lower lip, he takes a shaky breath, knowing he will not last, not with the ghost watching him so raptly, not after so much teasing beforehand. "Ti-tighter," he begs, the _please_ in his voice though unspoken. 

The ghost, once again, complies immediately and he needs no further prompting to speed up. He needs to words to tell him to rub his thumb around the tip nor to press against his slit.

And Raoul bucks and jerks, hands straining against the ropes. His back arches taut as his eyesight whites out from the force of his orgasm, a pressure that builds in his groin and rushes to every end of his body. Breathless moans fill the dark room before he finally settles back down onto the bed, and he cannot suppress the full body shudders when Erik strokes him a bit roughly through the last spurts of pleasure. 

He lets out a little whine alongside a breathy, " _Erik,"_ body pliable and relaxed, though neither his breathing nor his heart have returned to normal. The pleasure has dimmed from the white blaze it had been even though it is still so very pervasive.

His legs are suddenly jostled, the bed shifting. He looks up just in time to see the ghost seem to come to himself, surprised. Releasing Raoul immediately and more gracefully than Raoul could ever hope to, the older man scrambles off the bed and out of the room before he can summon enough energy to attempt to stop him.

His departure is not a surprise and yet the disappointment is overwhelming, ruining the afterglow of one of the best orgasms of his life. Clenching his fists only highlights the rope burns on his wrists but he is glad for the distraction. The blankets are far out of his reach and he pulls his legs to his chest, making himself as small as possible against the headboard. It is only to conserve body heat, he tells himself, and not because the emptiness he feels yawning within his chest.

o.o.o.o

End ficlet

A/N: It's so dang difficult writing smut – I thought I wouldn’t make it past 1000, but apparently, I was very wrong. I’m double dipping with this one: claiming a gift for Daisy as well as an entry to the E/R fic contest on phantastichomos tumblr. I had planned on doing something considerably more innocuous as a ‘first’ for them, but smut was desired and smut is what happened. It’s not even good smut. It’s… significantly less smutty than I would like.  

Fic Review: The incident Raoul's stressing over in the beginning of the fic is the first time that he thinks of Erik when he's masturbating, which catches him off guard technically, but thinking about Christine was definitely not working and Erik’s such a pervy voyeur. It was like they were trying to prove a point with each other at that moment, Raoul knowing Erik knew that he knew he was there but still choosing to masturbate.

Talk about sending mixed messages though. Erik is rather enraptured with the idea that he finally has a body he can explore, who more or less seems willing, that he loses himself in the ability to touch and explore and to do things he has only ever imagined doing. And it’s so amazing that at first he doesn’t even think of it in the sense of anything sexual (though it innately is); he’s just so damn engrossed in the simple feel of skin beneath his fingertips. And then Raoul goes ahead and acts sexy as all hell with his moans and the way he shudders when he presses his finger just so against his nipple and Erik can feel himself respond in like. And he almost cannot believe Raoul is letting him touch him, doesn’t even think about his obvious erection until Raoul begs (and he begs so damn prettily, it isn’t fair) and Erik touches him _there_ without even thinking about it at first, without really knowing what he should be doing with Raoul’s erection (sure, he knows what to do with his own, but Raoul’s is different, it’s innately different touching some else’s dick) and then before he can do anything, Raoul starts humping his hand and holy hell, Erik thinks he’s going to come in his pants and it’s just mesmerizing. There is not a single doubt in Erik’s mind that the image of Raoul jerking his hips against his hand is forever burned into his memory and something that will haunt his dreams for years if not decades to come. And then Raoul gives him bedroom eyes and asks him to touch him, to literally wrap his fingers around his erection and it never crosses Erik’s mind to do anything other than do as he requests. Raoul coming is like the pinnacle of everything sexy and hot and earth-shatteringly perfect that Erik may or may not have moved the heel of his free hand to press firmly on his own erection (not that Raoul was in any state of mind to notice when that happened) and rub one out, coming violently when Raoul moans his name. And thus fleeing is truly the only option he has, not that he’s sure what to make of the encounter besides knowing who will feature in all of his sexual fantasies from now on.

Can we also talk about how Raoul sleeps in a nightshirt with nothing else beneath it? I feel it is an important topic upon which to touch ;3.


End file.
